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Last Thursday I awoke around 8pm to the decidedly unmelodious jangling of my cellphone. It was my homegirl and erstwhile DJ partner Christine “Lex” Moy, with an urgent proposition. “Adam wants us to spin on Saturday,” she said. This was music to my destitute ears, having been broke and unemployed ever since my last job ended with me being dismissed for my unwillingness to play Ja Rule. Only one question remained: “Adam who?” I asked. “Katz,” was her reply. My first instinct was toward confusion. Adam Katz is in charge of booking for the Underground, that venerable haven of underage drinking and debauchery that had been closed by the school amid scandal 4 months ago. Could it be that the U.G., our beloved drinking establishment, was re-opening? Indeed it seemed so, and I immediately put all weekend plans on hold while I began combing through my jumbled crates of vinyl for appropriate music. Visions of tube-top clad freshmen danced through my brain as I imagined the mad scene it would surely be. Music bumping, kids dancing, lights dim, air hazy, people everywhere jumbled together, laughing, yelling, joking and reveling in the fact that it was Saturday and the Underground was finally open again. Smiling to myself, I dug De La Soul’s classic “Roller Skating Jam Called Saturdays” from a crate and placed it in my bag. By Saturday however, there were signs that all was not well in the basement of Faunce. The previous night, a concert sponsored by BSR had drawn fewer than 40 people to the U.G. And 20 of those had been in the bands. There were disquieting rumors of a ban on smoking, and, even worse, a ban on under 21-year-olds. In the wake of the tragedy in West Warwick, the Underground’s quaint piles of flammable material and antiquated equipment were being called fire hazards. Still, I thought, this is no reason for panic. The entire Brown population of legal drinkers couldn’t fit in the GCB, could they? At around 10 on Saturday Christine arrived on site and proceeded to lug all of our records into the bar. Since we weren’t sure what kind of crowd to expect, we planned for every possible contingency—Nelly, Bon Jovi, Biggie, Boston, Michael Jackson, and Madonna were among the eclectic mix of artists we could call on if we needed to. When we arrived the place was empty except for the six people working there—two at the door, two behind the bar, one on sound and one manager. No worries, I thought, it’s still early. Around 10:30 we were joined by one of Brown’s finest, BUPS’ Detective David Boucher, who looked bored. Detective Boucher was friendly and sympathetic to the employees of the UG. Out of courtesy, I refrained from playing any NWA records while he was around. As the night wore
slowly on, we began to despair that anyone would show up at all. Three
or four Sigma Chi kids came in and left after five minutes. A skinny dude
in a plaid shirt and glasses came in, had a beer, played darts by himself,
and left. A couple people peeked in, saw the desolate interior, and walked
away. At around 11:40 four friends of Christine showed up and stayed,
out of sheer unblinking loyalty, for 20 minutes. By the time they left
at around 12, we had seen enough. We cleaned everything up, locked the
place, and went to a party. |
copyright © 2002, The College
Hill Independent
last updated 03 14 03
